The Lioness Part 2: The Lioness Boared
by High Plains Drifter
Summary: The second of seven short stories primarily focusing on Cersei Lannister in an Alternate ASOIAF Universe. This story told through five POVs opens with the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion and covers the immediate aftermath of the war.
1. Chapter 1

**Jorah POV**

 **Iron Islands, 289**

CRASH!

"Huzzah!"

The sound of the huge rock whistling through the sky and pummeling into the curtain wall and the resulting cheers from the First Men in the sturdy redoubt opposite that abused section of Pyke's defenses reverberated almost simultaneously in Jorah's ears.

Another "Huzzah!" arose shortly.

Jorah added his voice to the cry as they all watched a ton or more of tortured granite break off as a result of the catapult's accurate strike and fall into the growing mound of rubble at the wall's base. He judged that with a little luck a large enough breach might be made by the afternoon that they could make an assault. Oaths and vows aside, he was anxious for the chance to end the Greyjoys; for after months a sea and then another on this barren wind swept manure pile, the Lord of Bear Island was anxious to return to the cool, wet forests of home.

A softer "Huzzah" now reached his ears. Automatically, Jorah peered again over the top of the redoubt's earth filled basket and timber scrap construction to look further south at what the two other catapults were doing to support the separate Westerlands and Reach forces in the siege line. Nothing of note so far as he could tell; those royal engineers weren't near as successful in breaking down Pyke's walls as the one's supporting the North.

Finally he realized the cries were coming from behind him and that the "Huzzahs" had evolved into a desultory mix of "Ours is the Fury!" and "The Stag!" shouts. That could only mean one thing. He turned all the way around and spied the pack of hardened warriors – Stark, Tallhart, Umber, Glover, and other houses' men-at-arms – part wide, as if an Other had appeared. Or perhaps rather the Night's King as the royal emanation was followed by seven white clad walkers.

The giant of a man striding beneath an antler adorned helm and bearing a long handled war hammer strapped over his back walked straight toward Jorah where he stood at the apex of the redoubt's V shape. "Ho, Mormont," the _Warrior_ made flesh called out jovially in greeting; though his eyes were fixed above Jorah's head on the distant wall.

"Your Grace, the North is happy to have you join us," he replied, well pleased to receive direct royal recognition. He followed his own greeting with a quick dip of the head in acknowledgement of the two most senior in the seven trailing white cloaks: Ser Barristan and the Kingslayer.

"Obliged to be with you. Besides, I smell the battle brewing here. Those peashooters down yonder couldn't properly land a shit in a garderobe if they were squatting over the hole, could they?" he scoffed brashly. Jorah and all the men in hearing distance, and the King carried a loud voice, broke out in laughter.

"We are eager to get through and have at the traitors," he announced eagerly as his guffaws ended and the king came up even with him at the edge of the crude defenses.

For that, Jorah received a thunderous slap on the back, followed by an equally resounding, "Good man. Good men, you Northern lads. No need to tell me why the North was never conquered."

The Lord of Bear Island felt proud at the compliment even though it was addressed as much to each of the five hundred or more men packed into this portion of the siege line than it was to him. "The North is yours, your Grace."

"Hahaha, don't let Ned hear you say that or he'll be sharpening Ice on your neck and mine," the Mighty Stag chortled. "Course you've Longclaw to defend yourself with. I only have this wee twig," he said with a wry smirk as a hand went up to caress the heavy iron anvil head and spike of the hammer like a lover. "Now let's have a cheer for your Liege! Winterfell!" he bellowed.

"Winterfell!" the crowd joined in as the King repeated the cry

"Louder you knaves!" came the royal command.

"WINTERFELL!" they all screamed while grinning like mad men.

"Now that's respectful. But shouting so dries a man's throat out something fierce," the King declared with another smirk; one accompanied by a knowing wink. A wineskin instantly appeared in his huge, open hand and the Mighty Stag drained it off in one long, prodigious go. The back of the other huge, free hand wiped across red stained lips to remove evidence of the dregs. "And that's a properly respectful vintage," he proclaimed of the undoubtedly vile wine a man-at-arms could typically afford to buy on campaign. He tossed over his own wine skin in the direction of where that one had come. Then "Burpppppppp!"

Laughter.

The King joined in with the men, then next pointed randomly into the mass at a man-at-arms in boiled leather and sporting a trio of sentinel trees on his muddied surcoat. "You there, Tallhart. Seems there's enough vinegary piss to drink. Getting enough swill to eat too? The usual undercooked porridge without any hamhock and hard as stone bread?"

"Or weevil filled, yer Grace," the man laughed back at the King on the quality of the fare. "Better t'en da Krakens eat now, I t'ink."

Jorah doubted that as the siege had only been going on a month. One could hope that Balon was as mad about keeping Pyke stocked with food as he had been about rebelling.

The Mighty Stag then went about quizzing the men a while on their status, their opinions of their leaders, and their opinions of the enemy – which he hoped with an exaggerated wink were different than their leaders. Jorah found himself nodding appreciatively alongside the rest or laughing with them at the King's ironic japes on the shittiness of siege work.

Apparently satisfied with all that he'd heard about the men's care, the regal visage grew serious and turned back to observe the enemy fortification two hundred yards distant. "Still plunking you with much in the way of arrows, Mormont?"

"Nay, your Grace. Only the odd one to keep honest maidens of us. Most like saving them up for our assault on the breach," Jorah answered.

"Aye, the breach. Did you know, at dawn, Mathis Rowan had the brass balls to dare bet Ned five hundred dragons that his Reachers would be first through a breach," the giant rumbled with dark humor.

"Fuck'em" and worse were snarled by those crowding about to listen raptly to the King they helped put on the Iron Throne.

"How did Lord Stark respond?" Jorah inquired loudly.

"Ho, that Ned. He gave that wee infuriating smile of his, the one I well remember from when he'd gotten the best of me, and simply replied, ' _Lord Mathis, you may keep your gold for the North has no need for it._ '"

Direwolf howls filled the redoubt in appreciation at their lord's wit.

And when the noise died down, the King continued, "So of course I bet that pompous Knight of Summer a thousand dragons that you boys would go in first."

"HUZZAH!" "STAG! STAG! STAG!" "OURS IS THE FURY!"

CRASH!

The cheers immediately stopped as all eyes shot out to the wall to see what damage had been rendered by the salvo. Then …

"HUZZAH!"

"Oh, that's close that is," Jorah barely overheard the King whisper with a lust more typically reserved for a woman. "What think you, Barristan?"

"Three or four more direct hits should suffice, your Grace" the famous knight judged, matching Jorah's own assessment.

"But that many direct hits could take the rest of the day," the Kingslayer advised.

"Here comes Lord Stark," a voice in back called out excitedly.

Eyes looked East and surely the Direwolf banner was making its way across the rear of the siege lines in the direction of the redoubt. Surprisingly, Jorah caught a grimace flash across the King's face so quickly that the Northman wasn't sure if he'd actually seen it.

"Mormont," the Mighty Stag barked.

"Yes, your Grace?"

"You still eager to get at the traitors?!" he asked, pitching his voice to carry.

"Aye, your Grace!" he replied loudly.

"Are there ladders here?!"

"Yes!"

The King turned to directly address the men packed in around him. "Are you Demons of the North with me!?"

"Huzzah!"

"Ready to kill some skulking, back stabbing, cockless ironborn shites!"

"HUZZAH!" "STAG! STAG! STAG!" "OURS IS THE FURY!"

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan cautioned softly through the din, putting a restraining hand on one of the King's tree stump thick arm.

"KILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!" the King screamed and turned to jump effortlessly over the redoubt's makeshift wall, Ser Barristan's hand no impediment to his going at all.

The Lord of Bear Island and seven Kingsguard hopped after their liege with barely a thought.

And so did hundreds of other men after the King and glory.

* * *

Jorah leapt down from the breach into the sole bailey of Pyke in pursuit of his rampaging King, pleasantly surprised to still be alive. What had seemed, if there had been a moment to reflect, a mad dash had in fact been a brilliant surprise; with the breach not yet fully formed, the ironborn had not yet risked fully deploying their men for the anticipated attack for fear of the catapults and giant bolt throwers.

Without a shield to protect him, the Mighty Stag had climbed the first placed ladder and wielding his war hammer one armed with contemptuous ease had knocked aside the boulder dropped at his head from above. Then drove it into the first defenders gut, puncturing mail, and used the dead ironborn's size and weight to clear out the rest defending the gap in the castle's curtain wall.

Jorah had been sixth up the fifth ladder. At the top he scramble over the body of a white cloak and three others. A glance left had shown another white cloak and two Cerwyn's holding the south end of wall and a sharp look right revealed a Glover, a Manderly, and two Tallharts guarding against reinforcements rushing down from the north end of the wall. The King had charged ahead, running to the big stone bridge that connected the headland with the Kraken's Great Keep. Jorah knew where duty lay and came to his feet to chase after it.

"Fuck," he grunted as his eyes took more in. The Stag was undoubtedly mighty, but not as fleet a foot as a slender doe. A hundred and more ironborn were pouring across bridge and the King and his surviving white cloaks were not going to make the mouth to plug it shut before the treacherous bastards could finish crossing and start to spread out.

That didn't seem to matter to the King. The Warrior made flesh refused to stop and make a defensive circle. The four white cloaks and five other men-at-arms with him kept on, forming a wedge. Did they intend to drive through the entire lot of the enemy and take the Great Keep themselves? Jorah's legs and lungs burned as he sprinted as best he could to catch up. He didn't dare to look behind to see who else might be following for fear he'd trip.

"Our is the Fury!"

Clang!

Crack!

Twang!

Bodies flew.

Heads detached from torsos as the deadly war hammer swept back and forth as effortlessly as a scythe cuts down wheat.

The first Northman fell while Jorah was still twenty yards away.

The wedge had slowed as the bodies piled up in front of the Mighty Stag. He stumbled on a corpse; missing a strike and allowing some ironborn rapist to land a thrust against a pillar of a royal leg.

No, the bridge would not be made.

The second Northman fell.

"Form circle!" Jorah screamed.

Longclaw sheared off an arm and his backswing caused a bastard to skip backward.

"Form circle!" he screamed again as he nearly lost his footing spinning about to put his back towards the King. He pushed the whitecloak to his left, Ser Mandon?, to make room as some Cerwyn, three Starks, and his man-at-arms Lucas joined the circle … and then no one else as seemingly hundreds of ironborn curled around and swept past them to charge at the Northern shield wall slowly forming just inside the modest breach.

Jorah stabbed, blocked, swung.

A score more of loyal warriors were spread out and engaged in individual battles with the growing numbers of ironborn in the space between the two groups. And then there were none.

"Come on you whoresons!" he bellowed over the crashing rings of steel on steel and thuds of iron on oak. Not knowing whether he was cursing the ironborn or his sluggish brothers.

Ironborn fell.

A white cloak fell. Blunt? No time to check

More ironborn fell.

The King's joyous laughter at the slaughter drowned out the screams.

He gave silent, desperate thanks to the Old Gods that none seemed to carry crossbows and only a few had spears.

An Umber took a wound and stumbled into the middle of the circle; forcing it to shuffle to stay whole, but smaller. There were three or four ironborn for each of them.

"Yes! They are coming!" Jorah cried. The shield wall was pushing forward

"KIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!" Raged the Mighty Stag.

Longclaw bit and swept and dealt death. The Valyrian steel gouging chunks out of mere man-made metals.

Jorah grimaced as something sharp jabbed through the chain covering an armpit. He took off half of a snarling face in exchange.

Blow. Blow. Counter. Duck. Stab. Stomp down. Sway left. Overhand. He began to notice his speed slowing. Bodies built up a barrier that offered some protection but hindered his foot work. A heavy strike numbed his shield arm, making him wish for a shield; but there was no time to dare reach down to grab one from the fallen.

"Get up, Kingslayer!" the King roared.

"Hamstrung, your Grace," Ser Barristan panted.

"Nooooooo!" Jorah cried. The Northern shield wall had stopped surging forward. As it moved further away from the wall it had been forced to extend outward as well. Critical mass was now lacking. And arrows were raining down on them. All of them.

Thunk!

Jorah swooned in pain; body heaving in its desire to vomit. He caught an incoming blow; grabbing the foe's sword hand and pommel to give him a moment to glimpse down at the source of the agony. A crossbow bolt protruded through mail, out of his thigh. He head butted the bastard to send him reeling and then swung Longclaw.

He tumbled over to sprawl on his back.

"Don't just sit there," snarled an angry voice.

The bloodstained earth spun as he woobled his head to see who was talking to him. Ser Jaime was on one knee. Sword stabbing out through the gaps either side of the King any time an ironborn got inside the arc of the King's pendulum like swinging hammer.

Body shrieking in agony, Jorah pushed himself to his knees. Flesh ripping and spitting blood around the deep lodged bolt in his leg.

Longclaw became a spear as the circle tightened and tightened.

"WINTERFELL! WINTERFELL! WINTERFELL!" a chant began.

"What's happening?" Jorah cried in frustration, not able to see from his near prone position through the mass of dead, dying, and bleeding mail and leather covered flesh.

"Lord Stark's making an effort to break …"

Lucas stopped speaking and toppled over on top of his lord, throat slashed.

"For Seven's sake!" the Kingslayer cursed as he pivoted on a knee to plug the gap with a dazzling fast blade for all that his range of movement was limited.

Jorah pushed the body off and regained his balance as the circle tightened yet again.

"Barristan!"

And with the Bold pitching down to the ground, the circle cracked.

Something pierced Jorah's side and he rolled over on his back, letting go of Longclaw.

In a moment only the King was left standing. His helm knocked of his head. Blood matting the long hair that spun as he twirled himself about in a circle; the long reach of the war hammer keeping the hounds at bay. Round and round the Mighty Stag went, ebon and crimson colored hair circling, circling. To Jorah's graying vision, it appeared more and more like the damned Targaryen's thrice headed red dragon splayed on sable.

"ROBERT!"

"NED! I'LL SAY HELLO TO LYA FOR YOU!"

"ROBERT!"

"End it already then you drunken, mindless, cockless buffoon," he heard the Kingslayer snarl.

Jorah rolled his eyes towards the still kneeling knight.

"Fuck" the knight's sword was embedded in some ironborn's guts.

And then the warhammer took the dead man walking's head off, collapsing him and wrenching the sword out of the Kingslayer's grip.

"This'll have to do."

"No," Jorah choked out in horrible realization at the desecration about to happen.

The Whitecloak picked up Longclaw and became twice damned as he jammed Valyrian steel deep into his King's groin.

The war hammer flew off into the air and the Mighty Stag was brought down.


	2. Chapter 2

**Jon Arryn POV**

 **Red Keep, 289**

Jon Arryn sighed heavily and set the parchment down on top of the Customs' stack. There were many such stacks of records currently spread out upon the head table in the Small Hall of the Tower of the Hand. This was not his typical place for doing business, but while he could not bring himself to work as normal of a morning in his salon; neither did he care to be so far away from Lysa as the Small Council Hall or Maegor's Holdfast.

Setting himself to duty and distraction, the normally steely eyed lord picked up the bill of lading for the cog that was to leave at first light on the morrow for the long journey to the Sunset Sea and the Iron Isles. Perhaps the last supply ship. He doubted the damnable Greyjoys could last much longer based on the last raven. Especially with Lord Paxter having already taken Great Wyk and Ser Lomas Estermont Old Wyk. The ironborn were essentially broken. But at a cost measured not just in blood.

Cheaper to buy and ship goods out of Lannisport for the campaign, if there was a functioning harbor and an unburned city. Or out of Oldtown, if it somehow didn't sit in the Targaryen loving Reach. Getting Robert to agree to using the Redwyne fleet had been difficult enough. Sunspear? ' _Ha!_ ' Jon snorted to himself. No, important materials must take the long expensive voyage from the only 'trusted' port south of Gulltown: King's Landing.

With his other hand he began sorting through another pile; this one provided by Ser Ormund Wylde, a dependable and loyal lord. Just not one terribly well fit, aside from loyalty, for being the Master of Coin. Even with Robert's profligacy at dipping into the well stuffed coffers frugal Aerys had left them, his only gift to the realm; there thankfully was enough silver and gold to pay for the war.

' _Ah, there_ ,' the Hand thought, and pulled out the necessary receipts for the burgeoning load of replacement weapons, armor, leather goods, wines, medicinal supplies, et al. that should match with the lading.

Check .. check .. check .. check .. check .. check .. check …. and … check, his strained eyes ticked off going back forth between the records.

That tedious exercise ended, Jon dared to look at the total cost and sighed wearily again. More money out of the treasury. If he squinted, the Hand could foresee a time when the Iron Throne might need to start borrowing money. But from whom, he wondered as he spilled a bit of wax on the bottom corner of the bill of lading and pressed his signet ring into it.

He gestured for a page to come refill his glass of wine.

"No one, that's whom," he muttered to himself unhappily. Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie would be damned if he ever went begging for coin from the Faithful or the Iron Bank or worst of all that wily scoundrel Tywin Lannister.

"My Lord Hand?" the server asked.

In irritation at having his thoughts interrupted, he crossly waved the man away unanswered. Looking down yet again at the records Ser Ormund had left him yester morn, Jon could practically feel the needed Dragons, Moons, and Stags slipping unaccounted for through his fingers.

Business at the docks was booming. True it was Summer, which always increased commerce. But there were benefits to the Krakens' stupidity. Shipping and sea trade up and down the coast of the Sunset Sea had come to a standstill. And the Arbor's huge fleet was off supporting Lord Paxter. Ship captains and merchants from both Westeros and Essos needed different outlets for theirs goods – and a fair share were coming to King's Landing according to the rise in paid docking fees.

Yet where was the correlated increase in custom fees to expect? Not all the new ships could be unloading straight from one into the other. Perhaps … perhaps he could snatch two birds with one swoop.

His cousin Osgood Aryn and Lord Maekor Grafton still sang the praises of young Baelish whom Jon had recommended to them for Gulltown's Customs' Inspector simply as a favor to poor Lysa. A posting that the eager, young Fingers' lordling had apparently taken to with gusto.

A beloved childhood face might offer up the cheer to raise Lysa out of her birthing doldrums. She was young. She would recover. And he? Jon Arryn simply felt old and resigned to what the Seven would grant him in his remaining days. After two miscarriages, this pregnancy had gone full term. Only to end in a stillbirth.

' _A son. I had a son_ ,' his mind cried for the thousandth time. Lysa's cries of birthing pain had ended in silence with no baby's wail of first breath. The silence only broken by his lady wife's hysterical shrieks. ' _My beautiful boy_ ,' he lamented. Blonde hair. The Arryn beaked nose surprisingly prominent for a new born. A fully formed son of his flesh delivered in his sixty eighth year straight to the _Stranger_. A lifetime of hopes, long repressed dreams … shattered. He did not know if Lysa had the strength within her to try again.

And worse, his personal curse seemed to have spread to the son of his heart as well. No seed took soil in Cersei's womb either. While Robert held this fact angrily over the Queen; not once, to his knowledge, did the King ever suggest the politically difficult but most likely necessary course of putting Tywin Lannister's daughter aside in favor of some lass more fecund than her.

Sigh. He continued to muse, ' _At least dear Ned had children; with a third on the way – alas no chance of sweet Catelyn visiting my Lysa with comfort any time soon. Thankfully Stannis has heirs, if no longer a wife. Poor, poor Shyra never did recovere from the twins: Lyonel and Cassana who joined doughty Steffon._ '

He stopped remembering the pain with the bittersweet and reached for a blank sheet and his quill. The letter would leave by raven for Gulltown before dark.

Scratch, scratch, scratch. Sigh. Scratch, scratch, scratch …

"My Lord Hand?"

"Grand Maester. Is all well with my lady wife?" he responded with concern, looking up from the half finished letter.

Pycelle smiled kindly down at him through that downy white beard. "I did not come from dear Lady Lysa's side, but from the Rookery. A missive for you, my Lord Hand," he said sleepily.

"And it says …?" Jon inquired; knowing very well that the two faced old man had most likely already read the note.

A shrug of those narrow shoulders hidden within his over large velvet red robe. "I know not, my Lord Hand. It came from Pyke. Or rather, from the Master of Ships, I should properly say," the Grand Maester stated indifferently.

At the mention of "Pyke," Jon's age spotted hand shot out expectantly.

Chains jingled ever so lightly as Pycelle reached into a voluminous sleeve to extract the small, rolled up scroll in order to pass it over.

The seal held the indentation of House Manderly's merman sigil. A thumb nail broke the wax.

 _Lord Hand, glorious King Robert is dead; slain leading the assault into that den of treacherous Krakens called Pyke._

Jon Arryn's heart skipped a beat as he sucked in a gasp of air that rattled right back out in a spasm of pain and agony. The parchment crumpled in his hand. His body slumped over the table.

"My Lord Hand, are you alright?" a distant voice called out through the fog.

He felt hands pulling him upright. Propping him up.

"Drink this, my lord."

The brim of a deathly cold goblet touched his lips and wine, tasting like ashes, slid down his quavering throat.

"Oh my. This is horrible. Tragic. Whatever shall we do?" the Grand Maester warbled sympathetically.

Through glazed eyes Jon looked up in a daze at the doddering Lannister lackey. The aged man now held the letter in his own brown spotted, trembling old hands. He did not remember anyone taking it out of his own.

"And worse, I fear," Pycelle continued in that officious concerned tone of his. "Lord Stark was also struck down leading a charge to rescue the King."

"No," Jon croaked in utter desolation. "My sons. Both my sons. My dear sweet boys."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Not a Kingsguard left alive either. Brave, honorable Ser Barristan, you shall be missed. And doomed young Ser Jaime … why, the Queen shall be doubly tortured," Pycelle droned on. "We must go tell her Grace, right away. And send word to Lord Tywin," he added with rare vigor.

"No. No, I say!" The Hand of the King commanded, pulling himself back from the precipice of despair. "Guards! Guards!" he shouted. A pair were always near him and they were already hovering about at his distress though he had failed to notice them during his swoon. "Escort the Grand Maester back to the Rookery. See that he immediately sends ravens, several ravens, to Storm's End. Lord Stannis must be told he is now the King. He must come to King's Landing to ascend the Iron Throne," he panted. "Afterward, do what you will, write to Lord Lannister … get the High Septon to ring the Great Sept's bells in mourning, I care not."

"But what of her Grace? Who shall tell the sweet girl of this … this catastrophe?" Pycelle prattled.

"I shall. That is my terrible duty, for I am the Hand and she is the Queen. Now give me back Lord Wyman's message. I would read the whole of it first."

* * *

Jon Arryn did not have far to go. Her Grace was not in Maegor's Holdfast or roaming about the castle; nor down Aegon's Hill in the city. Robert's jealousy for Cersei was renowned; whenever he was without the Red Keep, for even a solitary knight, her Grace was commanded to reside within the Maidenvault. An ironic twist on Baelor's original intent made by a King as lusty as Robert.

The heart breaking refrain of 'My son, my son, my son,' kept beating through his head as his heavy feet trod slowly across the Middle Bailey.

However, even as his pain dominated both his thoughts and his beaten body, Jon Arryn never stopped being the Hand. Ideas or political considerations randomly crossed his mind.

Would Stannis wish to keep him on as Hand?

What would happen to Pyke with every man-child ten or older massacred across the whole of the isle in vengeance?

Had Manderly sent a separate raven off to Lady Catelyn in Winterfell?

Will the Reach or Dorne now try to cause trouble for the new King?

Retiring to the Eyrie with Lysa for the remainder of his dotage looked appealing.

Was it worth the gold to send the royal fleet after those remnants of the Iron Fleet that had escaped with Euron Greyjoy?

King's Landing and the Iron Throne brought nothing but woe to those around it.

He would tell the King 'no' if asked to be his Hand; Stannis, a good man, was not his beloved Robert.

Should he command Lord Tywin to send Asha Greyjoy down the Goldroad if Lord Wyman held to his word to drop the chit off at Lannisport as he returned with Robert's bones?

Maybe he and Lysa could visit Winterfell; he owed it to Ned to see his other son's bones interned with his kin in those sarcophagi that young Ned had so oft described about his house's crypt during his fosterage at the Eyrie.

"Lord Hand?" that beaten voice inquired politely. "Is everything alright? You look pale."

Jon shook his head to remove the cob-webs; he didn't remember entering the Maidenvault nor climbing the stairs to the Queen's travel apartment.

He bowed, as was proper and respectful. "Your Grace."

"Yes? Please rise Lord Jon. Would you care for wine?"

"No, your Grace. I bear grim news. Terrible, terrible news," he repeated himself.

A raspy, anticipation laden, "What?" issued from her mouth.

"His Grace," and Jon's own voice began choking up. "Your … your royal Husband was … was killed at Pyke."

Bright green eyes stared back at him in astonishment. The beautiful face she had inherited from her delightfully charming mother, Joanna, could not have appeared more stunned than if Robert had smacked her himself with his warhammer.

"I am … sorry," he whispered in the silence.

That lovely throat that Robert enjoyed touching so much bobbed up once, twice. The strong yet delicate nose twitched. A solitary sob escaped ruby red lips. And then her whole body began to shake as a torrent of tears started to flow down those perfect cheekbones which Robert had so adored stroking and pinching between his large, strong hands.

His "son's" marriage was not love filled. No one who knew the King and Queen would ever claim that. Theirs was a political marriage that the couple made work acceptably because they must; the lack of an heir aside. Much like his own with Lysa. Still, how clearly Robert's death moved her, touched something deep within the tired, pain filled old man; hurting him a fresh.

He let her go on at least a full minute and more before he dared speak again over her the low sounds of her grieving. "I fear, your Grace, there is more … more dire news."

The last of her stoic façade tore away. "Jaime?" she gurgled.

"While defending his Grace to his last breath," said as proudly as he ever before had praised the Kingslayer.

"NNNOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" the Queen screamed, at last giving full vent to the same pain and rage Jon himself had felt.

The Lioness crumpled to the floor and futilely beat the flagstone floor with what strength remained her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Catelyn POV**

 **Winterfell, 289**

"… twenty fleeces … four goats … ten barrels of apples … and one hundred days service from Lord Kenyth's smallfolk. All appears in proper order," Vayon concluded in going over the list in his hand.

"So Coldbrook has met there obligation for Late Summer," Catelyn Stark agreed, writing " _tithed in full_ " and then adding her signature next to that holdfast's name in Winterfell's " _Book of Crofter Lords_ ". "Which brings us to Snowy Meadows," she said with a sigh.

"Your decision was the correct one, my lady," the kindly steward, ten years her elder, re-assured her. "Maester Luwin concurred. The rye blight could easily have spread to Fir Branch or Beaver Falls or Flint Ridge and then from any of those straight down all the holdfasts of the Little White Knife to Winterfell lands. The burning of the their fields had to be done."

She smiled softly through her discomfort; knowing that she would have spoken similar soothing words to a disquieted Ned were he here, instead of off fighting another war for his friend the King. "I worry for the children that will go hungry as Dark Summer descends, that is all, Vayon."

"'Winter is coming,' Lady Catelyn. All Lord Eddard's vassals well remember House Stark's words. The Early Summer harvest and the past Dark Summer wheat were plentiful. Lord Sycard's smallfolks will not need to use any of their laid in stores to make it through till Early Summer again. Especially, as you rightly remitted them their tithe."

"Yes. I suppose. It is easier being the Lady of Winterfell when my lord husband is beside me," she admitted to one of the very few people in Winterfell she would dare to share her doubts. Over the last six months, forced to work side by side even more than before what with Ned gone, the two had become closer; actual friends.

Vayon dipped his head in silent agreement.

She dipped the quill in the inkpot and wrote "tithe dispensed, blight." But instead of simply signing her name, Catelyn picked up a small candle and dribbled a small amount of wax on the page in the thick tome next to her note. She pressed her cold ring, baring the sigil of a nursing direwolf, into the hot blob.

"If you do not mind, Vayon. I think a break is in order. We can discuss the readying of Wintertown for any seeking to avoid the snows of Dark Summer this afternoon."

"Certainly, Lady Stark. May I get you wine or other refreshments?" he offered solicitiously.

"No, thank you. I feel the need to stretch my back," she declared. ' _And empty my bladder_ ,' she did not add a loud. The little one grew heavier and more active within her by the day; making her innards feel like a squire after a session with Ser Rodrik.

Vayon helped pull her chair back and showed her to the door of his tidy, yet full, office.

Her need was too great to walk back from the rear of the Great Hall to her apartments and private garderobe in the Great Keep so she unfussily used the ordinary jakes; a pregnant woman did not have the luxury of fastidiousness. Particularly one already in her eighth month.

Necessaries taken care off, she stepped into the inner courtyard and enjoyed the warmth of the Wildling Summer sun on her face. The days were growing shorter and this last spurt of heat demanded that it be treasured before Late Summer ended and Dark Summer brought with it regular snow falls; hopefully none greater than a few inches.

Catelyn Stark nee Tully did then in fact stretch her back to force out the kinks that had developed as she spent the morning leaned over Vayon's desk doing her duty. And as she did so she contemplated where to go next with her exceptionally sparse spare time.

She stared up at the nursery's window in the Great Keep and debated the reward of taking three year old Sansa from Old Nan for a bit of play, for her opportunities to do that would end for at least a month once she gave birth, versus the cost in energy it would take her to waddle up the stairs.

Or she could go retrieve six year old Robb from his lessons with Maester Luwin. A bit of a hike through Winterfell's sprawling grounds, but she was at least certain of finding a page who could run up the Maester's Turret to fetch down her son.

As she started turning to look in the tower's direction, Catelyn stopped as the sight of the Sept Ned had built for her caught her eye; pleasing her greatly. She immediately heard the _Mother_ whispering to her heart and so what could she do but obey. When she started her waddle towards the _Seven_ , a sudden outburst of raven croaks flooded the castle's air.

CAW! CAW! CAW!

CAW! CAW! CAW!

CAW! CAW! CAW!

Catelyn paused and completed her previously interrupted turn to fully look towards the Maester's Turret and sign of an incoming message. The caged ravens frequently squawked loudly whenever another bird arrived; but it was just the feral flock that periodically gathered in the Winterfell's still foreign to her Godswood rising up off the branches of the heart tree, spooked by the _Crone_ knew what.

A quick inspection showed neither the Septon nor the Septa present as she entered the seven-sided building; though, the Seven's presence aside, she was not alone in the modest Sept. Winterfell's master-at-arms was there praying. His knighthood was not a mere honorific as those granted to the few Northmen to earn it.

The doughty middle aged warrior from Winterfell pledged House Cassel lands had in his youth fostered in the Riverlands; Maidenpool and House Mooten specifically. There he was knighted. There he married both his first and second wives. There he was anointed in the faith of the _Seven_. He had only returned to the North and entered Winterfell's service because of the death of his elder brother, Martyn; to oversee his house's humble holdfast until his four nephews were grown.

Catelyn left him to his silent prayers to the _Warrior_ and took her place before the icon of the _Mother_. With her distended belly, kneeling proved a chore; to which the little one added the pleasure of a flip and a kick.

' _Mother, watch over my lord husband and see him safely home to me. Show your mercy to all the brave men who follow their lord as their duty requires. Forgive them their Old Gods ways. They are good men at heart; not at all like the watery demon worshippers whom they seek to bring to justice,_ ' she prayed as she prayed initially every day in the Sept, for those absent loved ones most needing grace.

' _My thanks to you for the gift of life growing in my womb. May the child be born whole and safe and under your loving guidance. Mother, I know it is wrong to keep asking that your blessed child be a boy, but I beg you that my lord husband receive another trueborn heir. And that he looks a Stark. Forgive me for my pride; that I …_ '

"Lady Catelyn. Lady Catelyn."

She paused in her prayers and with difficulty looked behind through the candle lit gloom towards the entrance doors.

"Maester Luwin. Where is Robb?" she asked with some confusion.

"On his way to the Great Keep," the small graying man, with a hint of ginger still just noticeable in his beard and the fringes of his receding hair, answered as he walked silently to her.

Instinctively Catelyn sought to stand. She struggled to do so; the little one resisting as well, now agitated and bouncing around her insides. The maester's surprisingly strong hands grasped her wrists and helped her all the way up.

"A message from Lord Manderly," he announced without ceremony, removing his hands from her and pulling a small scroll out from where he had stored it in one of the many pockets littering his robe.

"Ohhhh," she moaned, a kick against her spleen shooting pain throughout her body.

"Perhaps you should sit, Lady Catelyn," he suggested.

"Lady Catelyn?" Ser Rodrik asked gently from the other side of the modest Sept.

"Nothing, Ser Rodrik. The baby insists on fussing. Nothing more." A trembling hand accepted the rolled parchment. She opened it. An abyss erupted around her. An awesome emptiness engulfed her. She felt nothing … knew nothing … was nothing.

.

.

.

Honor

.

.

.

Duty

.

.

.

Family

.

.

.

' _And the first of these is family_ ,' she thought.

.

.

.

"My lord husband is dead," she announced in a whisper; for all her energy went to stopping from giggling madly. ' _Cursed, I am cursed. Brandon. Now Ned._ '

Maester Luwin eased her over to a stool and set her softly upon it.

' _What am I to do. What am I to do_. _I am lost in an alien place._ '

Ser Rodrik's reassuring bulk came to loom beside her as well.

The note was taken from her lifeless fingers and passed over to the master-at-arms to read.

' _T'was a raven after all. Dark wings. Dark words._ '

"We are here for you and the children, Lady Catelyn," Ser Rodrik rumbled soothingly.

' _The children. The North shall feast upon my children. Too auburn. Too Tully. Too Southron._ '

"Thank you, Ser Rodrik. I know I can count on your loyalty,' she replied by rote.

"Let us take you to your rooms. You must rest," Maester Luwin suggested.

"No, no. I must think. I must. First"

' _We could flee South. No. They would never let us return ... or leave._ '

She shivered.

An image of Ned and shadowy others rose huge in her mind. " _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_."

"I understand, Ned," she answered him. She could not, would not, at any cost leave her children's birthright. A thousand Kings of Winter demanded it of her.

"My lady?" Ser Rodrik asked with deep concern.

' _I shall write father. A hundred knights and a thousand men-at-arms will … no, they would be viewed as invaders. What am I to do?_ '

She cleared her throat. "The North loves and respects my lord husband. And House Stark. Do they not?"

"Yes, my lady," Maester Luwin answered dispassionately.

"Of a certainty. To the last drop of our blood and honor," Ser Rodrik proclaimed zealously.

"We must form a Regency Council for Robb," she said in a dull voice.

"That would be wise," Maester Luwin agreed.

"I suppose that would be proper, my lady," Ser Rodrik hesitated.

' _But who to sit upon it?_ '

"Maester Luwin, you must send a raven to Castle Black. Benjen must know of Ned's … of Ned's …" she could not finish the sentence. "And Lord Commander Jeor asked that Benjen be assigned, if only for a year or two, to Winterfell. He is new to his command, but the Mormonts were ever loyal, were they not?"

"Yes."

"Without doubt!"

' _Who else? Lord Umber is too much the oafish Greatjon to rely upon. Lord Rickard will want to betroth a son to Sansa and baby Alys to Robb. Lord Bolton will wish the same for young Domeric. Greedy vultures. Too strong willed and clever vultures._ '

"Also send ravens to … to White Harbor to Ser Wylis … to Cerwyn … and to … Hornwood. We shall make a Regency Council with them, Benjen, and myself."

"That will work for a beginning, my lady."

The little one stood on her bladder. A quiver of pain radiated through her abdomen. "A beginning is all I require for now, Maester Luwin. The rest … the rest …" she let the pain pass before continuing. "Ser Rodrik, would it be wise to ask that each bring some of their bannermen with them."

The master-at-arms immediately started stroking his huge grey muttonchop whiskers. "Aye. Some. No more than … well … two hundred each; any less will prick their pride, now being regents to Lord Robb. Lord Robb," he repeated, strange words to his tongue. "I shall ensure our own bannermen, local holdfasts oathed direct to Winterfell, stiffen the castle guard force enough we shan't have a worry if one of them, steady lords and ser though they be, gets any untoward idea, Lady Catelyn."

"Very well," she sighed. "Maester Luwin, you should see to your ravens. Here is my ring that you should apply my sigil to each missive."

"I would see you to your rooms first, Lady Catelyn. You are not yet recovered from the shock, me thinks."

"And I have my children's lives to worry for. See to this house's duty as I command it, maester," she snapped heatedly at him.

"Lord Stark was an excellent lord, and a better man. He understood duty. I shall mourn him and do my duty," the greying man stated with dignity. "My lady." He bowed and then walked purposefully out of the Sept.

"Will you escort me to my children, Ser Rodrik. They must hear of this … tragedy," she gasped.

The knight nodded both sage and sad agreement.

She wobbled to her feet. Automatically he took her arm to steady her, to help her forward.

"How many of your men are believers, Ser?"

"Almost a score, my lady. Why do you ask?" he queried in obvious puzzlement.

"I mean true believers, Ser Rodrick. True believers."

He sighed. "Three."

"All good men with a blade?"

"Yes."

"Then I have a secret job for them."

She felt the knight hesitated slightly in his step.

"Command me, Lady Catelyn."

"Jon Snow is a threat to Robb," she stated baldly.

The callused, sword strong hand holding her arm clenched involuntarily.

"I wish my lord husband's natural born son, no ill-will, I promise you, Ser Rodrik. But you can plainly see he cannot remain here in Winterfell. Not with his looks a constant comparison to my Robb's," she explained carefully.

"Aye," he said quite slowly, opening the entrance doors to the Sept for her.

"I wish Jon Snow taken to White Harbor. Let him be raised in Lord Wyman's court. They shall properly honor him and see that he is taught the ways of the Seven. Perhaps one day he can return a belted knight to Winterfell to pledge himself to his half-brother," she suggested to honey the proposition.

Ser Rodrik paused with her, half in the Sept and half out. Clearly thinking over her troubling seeming wish. A long, slow sigh. "Very well, my lady. It shall be so."

"Do you promise me, Ser?"

Another sigh. "On my honor, I promise."

Catelyn hid her smile as they resumed walking.

' _My children shall be safe. I have done all that I can. For now._ '

CAW! CAW! CAW!

CAW! CAW! CAW!

CAW! CAW! CAW!

A swarm of ravens swooped down upon the pair from the sky.

Ser Rodrik immediately let go of Catelyn's arm so that he can bat at the evil, black, mad beasts as they pecked and clawed at them.

The knight spun about; throwing his bulk and mass into his defense of her.

On wobbly legs Catelyn found herself falling. She stabbed her arms out to try and catch her weight.

PAIN!

Shooting, jabbing, rupturing pain erupted within her as her belly struck Winterfell's hard packed earth.

And as suddenly as the attack began, the demon possessed birds flew off towards the Godswood.

"Lady Catelyn! Lady Catelyn! Are you hurt!?" Ser Rodrik shouted, breaking through the deafening ringing in her ears.

The agony dulled to mere misery and torture.

"Lady Catelyn!?"

"I … I think I'm bleeding," she moaned pitifully.

"Where?" he asked anxiously, having knelt down to examine her.

"My … my … down there," she half stuttered, half gasped.

"That's not blood, my lady. Your water's broke."


	4. Chapter 4

**Stannis POV.**

 **Red Keep, 289, New Year's Eve**

Stannis noted the Baratheon pennant flying atop the lead war galley of his small fleet begin to sag and cover over the lower in precedence dark green Estermont banner as his Uncle Eldon's _Turtle Tooth_ entered the usual afternoon wind shadow cast by Aegon's Hill over the mouth of the Blackwater Rush.

In response to the obvious clue, the five full-fingered captain of the _Swift Sword_ commanded, "Out oars." A cry that the first mate promptly echoed down the deck to the oar master to the "phoomf" sound of a hundred oaken blades in near unison sliding out their small oar-holes, and then the start of a slow, synchronizing "dum – dum" beat by the drummer. The rowers started cutting the salty water of the bay.

"Lower sails. Haul in the sheets!" The call was repeated and more sailors rushed to comply.

The stern faced lord did not need to hear the approving giggle of Steffon, who stood beside him on the poop deck, to know that his men had performed this turn of their sea duty well; and for the entirety of the journey from Storm's End as well … in the main. For Stannis noted many things, for good or for ill; t'was his nature to judge.

Under normal circumstances, a fleet comprised of only fifteen moderately sized war galleys to escort him to his crowning would have been an insult. However, the Royal Fleet, as well as the prime warships of all the naval houses facing the Narrow Sea, sailed on the other side of Westeros seeing to the final destruction of the ironborn. And in their absence, pirates from the so called Free Cities had grown more bold. Worse, the news of Robert's death would not remain contained to King's Landing. Dark wings, dark words some how flew faster than a raven did.

So the uncrowned stag refused to allow some lucky band of corrupt Lyseens or Tyroshi or Myrmen sea bandits to deprive Westeros of its rightful, needed, King through carelessness. Thus, Stannis had commanded that Greenstone, Evenfall Hall, Parchments, Rain House, Griffin's Roost each send one galley to Storm's End to join the last and least three of House Baratheon's warships. And then at Sharp Point he had joined with one each from Houses Bar Emmon, Celtigar, Velaryon, Massey, and Sunglass; as well as two ships sent from Dragonstone.

With additional logic, he had seen no reason to risk the rest of his too sparse family with the sea journey to King's Landing. Stannis only needed his heir, who upon his crowning would be immediately titled as Prince of Dragonstone, with him now. To oversee, if only temporarily, the safety and upbringing of little Ormund and Cassana, as well as young Renly – soon to be raised as the next Lord Paramount of Storm's End, the order delivered to Greenstone had included the instruction for Grandfather Estermont to sail with Uncle Eldon and become the Castellan of Storm's End for the nonce.

As the rest of the modest flotilla at last also began to ship oars and lower sails, the widower looked down at his motherless, barely seen five name days, son; studying him. The lad had notably taken to the bluster of the sea on the ten day journey; a much hardier experience than the day long jaunts Stannis occasionally allowed Ser Davos to spoil the child with. Was Steffon's joy simply similar to the pleasure that Renly so frequently expressed at some new and interesting toy; or was it the sign of a dangerously adventurous spirit like Robert's?

Stannis Barathron had much to ponder as his crowning drew nigh.

* * *

The Small Council, the High Septon, the Queen Dowager, and the lord captains of his fleet quite properly were already gathered at the bottom of the gangway as Stannis prepared to make his way off the _Swift Sword_. Behind them at a slight distance stood the usual gaggle of petty lordlings, sycophantic knights, and minor court functionaries that surrounded the Iron Throne; all forever grasping for some grubby gain to their purses or perceived rank, any true service performed by them for the crown in the process being merely a fortuitous coincidence.

At Storm's End, his five year's lordship had completed what Robert's rebellion and Mace Tyrell's siege had begun; the banishment of such useless lickspittles. Here, however, near three hundred year's of entrenched Targaryen lassitude and promiscuity in all things appropriate and just presented a far vaster challenge. At five and twenty, Stannis knew he had a life's work ahead of him to set Westeros a right.

As he set his foot on the plank to descend to their level, Stannis understood all too well that these men would not thank him for what he would do, must do. And that included the scant crowds of smallfolk gathered about the harbor front, by the Rivergate, and atop the city wall that he eyed gawking at him, and not cheering, for he was not Robert. Nor would he ever be. Though he assumed they would lie to his face and loudly proclaim their false thanks.

"Your Grace, welcome to King's Landing; though I wish the circumstance for your arrival were more joyous," the Hand declared with a mixture of curtesy and sadness in his aged voice. Jon Arryn had loved Robert like a son.

"This duty has passed to my shoulders; a thing I never sought from my brother," Stannis allowed himself to say in response while begrudgingly refraining from objecting to the title the Hand applied to him. He had not been crowned, so he was not yet correctly the King. But he had agreed to try and apply at least in his early days in King's Landing the wisdom his aged grandfather had felt obligated to pass to him the night before he sailed.

" _You will have need of many of these lords in the Red Keep, Stannis. Even the fools. For stupidity knows no boundary between smallfolk and lords. Lords can simply do greater damage with it. So be as magnanimous as you can muster. Do not be rash. Plan before you act. Most of all, find out whom you can trust; but do not trust even them over much. And for Seven's sake, try not to let them see you grind your teeth at their idiocy_."

Uncle Eldon had laughed at that last bit. Yet now in the capital, his relative's middle aged face was as stolid as the _Turtle Tooth's_ iron ram, while most of the rest of the assembled lot smiled hesitantly or grinned maddeningly at him. Which of them might be near as loyal as family, he wondered; while not bothering to ponder whether any could love him. He was not his brother.

"And a welcome as well to you, my Prince," the Hand added to address the boy at Stannis' side.

His son smiled nervously in answer, but said nothing.

"Bow to Lord Arryn, Steffon. He is the Hand of the King, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East. He commands respect."

"Yes, father." The boy then proceeded to bow as he said, "My lord, I thank you."

Stannis' ear caught the phony murmurs of wonderment and praise and surprise from the noble rabble in response to Steffon's simple words; as if his child was some mummer's monkey that had been taught to speak instead of a proper young scion of House Baratheon.

"Allow me to introduce …" the Hand started.

"I know all these lords and sers, Lord Hand," Stannis interrupted, for had he not obediently visited King's Landing at least once a year as Robert commanded and at some point or another met each and every one of them? Then, after a brief pause, "And it pleases me to see you dutifully here." He next pitched his voice to carry as if he were a deck at sea. "Return to the Red Keep and witness me crowned upon the Iron Throne."

The ensuing enthusiasm from the pack of lordly jackanapes lacked vigor.

Jon Arryn's lips pinched a moment and then opened for him to say softly, "The Small Council thought to first hear your thoughts on the coronation you desired, your Grace."

"I am not Robert, Lord Hand. _This_ is the coronation I desire. The Seven Kingdoms have need of an anointed King. The sooner the wiser, I fear." The Martells and the Tyrells were born troublemakers. And he lacked his brother's personal connections to the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Westerlands. His legitimacy could not wait. The Realm must be made to bow to him and quickly. "Such fripperies as music and pretty clothes may wait for when my brother's bones are returned and the city set to properly mourn their former King."

"As you command, your Grace," Jon Arryn conceded, then turned to the High Septon. "Your High Holiness, do you foresee any difficulty in attending to the King's wishes?"

The squat, pudgy man frowned in thought a moment. "Would there be time for a messenger to gather the crystal crown and my full ceremonial raiment from the Great Sept, your Grace?"

' _Fripperies_ ,' Stannis thought darkly, as he bit the side of his mouth to stop his teeth from grinding together. "No, High Septon. A short delay, a very short delay, would be acceptable so that the _Seven_ may better bless your endeavor." Reluctantly, Stannis concluded that he too should change into something more regal than his sea coat.

The chubby priest smiled. "Then, as I remember the august prayers by heart, all I shall need is the royal crown that will don your brow, your Grace."

An effeminate, disappointed "Oh my" reached Stannis.

"Is there a problem?" he asked sternly.

"King Robert took his crown with him," Jon Arryn announced.

"To war?"

"I fear so, your Grace," the plump, head shaved creature who played at Master of Whisperers while exuding the scent of lavender and lilac declared. "He was quite fond of it. Swirling antlers, engraved scenes of his triumph over Prince Rheagar. A very impressive piece of goldwork and gems."

"What Lord Varys is not explaining, your Grace, is that King Robert ordered all the old Targaryen crowns melted down. But worry not, we will find something appropriate," the Hand interjected.

"Your Grace?" an actual feminine voice asked hesitantly.

"Queen Cersei," Stannis acknowledged, directly turning his gaze upon his brother's widow for the first time. She stood erect yet cast her eyes submissively downward.

Her hands rose up to her elaborately coifed hair and gingerly slipped off the golden circlet almost fully hidden amongst thick tresses of living gold. "Please, use this, your Grace, for I have no more need of it."

"You are the dowager queen, Cersei, and shall be until such time as I or you remarry. The crown is rightly yours."

Her face tilted up, a whisper of a smile and deep green eyes now looking at him. She dropped a small curtsey. "Then if only for a short time, you would honor me," she said with some evident emotion, the hint of tears forming beneath her emerald orbs.

Shyra had seldom cried in his seeing; she had been too practical for that. Though the few times it had occurred had left him disquieted. "Your gift shall suffice," he agreed. And Stannis immediately found his large hands holding her small, trembling hands that had thrust the crown at him.

* * *

Stannis did not know how or why his brother's widow came to be by his side after he descended from the Iron Throne and made to exit from the Great Hall to the Outer Yard, but there she walked to his right with Steffon struggling to stay even on his left. Now every lordling and contemptible functionary in the half-filled room was crowding forward to try to catch his attention and wish him well, "a long reign," "blah, blah, blah." At least _she_ refrained from chattering like mockingbird as most ladies chose; sentimental, inconsequential, and over enjoying the sound of their own voices.

The Queen Dowager had ridden in the royal wheelhouse with him, Steffon, Lord Arryn, and the High Septon up from the docks to the Red Keep. Her comments on the trip unencumbered by cheers from the city's smallfolk had been few and to only points relevant to his coming rule. A quality he had vastly appreciated in Shyra; who, while never dwelling on it, had in her own efficient way made clear to him her poor regard of Cersei Lannister.

As the trio approached the massive oaken doors of the entrance, he adjusted his gaze slightly to study Lord Tywin's daughter. Thinner than he remembered. Still beautiful. Serious of mien; though he detected the wisp of smile developing on her full ruby lips. Her stride, matching if not pushing his on long legs, hinted at a barely repressed vitality. Regal in demeanor. 'A lioness,' he concluded aptly for a Lannister.

Perhaps he should thank her for leading the traditional royal greeting upon his crowning. No matter the girth of the High Septon, Stannis eyes and ears could not fail to detect the hesitation in the Great Hall; and who among them stepped forward to properly acknowledge him. The cheer weak and ragged. A horribly inept job of sycophancy by the would be seekers and graspers. He began to open his mouth.

"Father?" Steffon asked loudly, startling him as they passed under the archway into the setting light of day.

He jerked his head about to look at his son. And with that, Stannis felt the weight atop his head shift and slip. Instinctively he reached up to grab it but the circle of gold slipped through his thick fingers before he could close them.

"Your Grace," Cersei's voice said in half a hush.

He turned back towards her to find she held the crown safe.

Fidgety hands offered it back to him. Odd looks clouding her stern face as she did so.

"Nay, Cersei; your gift has served its purpose well. You are a Queen and this crown, by rights, is yours. Keep it always," Stannis declared.

A warmth and other womanly emotions suffused the previously serious mien. "My thanks, your Grace. Truly," she whispered in a husky voice. "I am yours to command," she said, giving him a deep curtsey.

"Father!" A tug on his sleeve.

Stannis' lips pursed a moment. "Patience, Steffon," he snapped. "Queen Cersei, kindly look after my son, the prince. Show him his apartment in Maegor's Holdfast," he commanded before pivoting to look at the boy and then placing a hand on his shoulder. "I shall see you at this even's feast in the Queen's Ballroom. Now I must meet with my Small Council. The Realm must be ruled or I am no King."

* * *

"House Raynard, banners to the Tarlys, investment of Dustonbury is now entering its third month; all for the usual reasons; a child heir coming from a second cousin where the eldest male third cousin is a proven warrior married to Luc Raynard's youngest daughter," Varys stated as one of a long litany in his points of interest for the Reach.

"Any sign of Lord Randyll or Lord Titus trying to involve themselves?" Jon Arryn queried. While the Peakes had not ruled Dustonbury since King Daeron the Good, they often stuck their smug noses into any business that related to their past glory.

"Not yet. But if my little birds tell me of such moves, I will assuredly let you know at once, Lord Hand," the eunuch said with his usual overwrought diffidence.

Stannis, though it pained him, would not have minded hearing of more conflict in the Reach. Anything to keep Mace Tyrell's banner lords divided and quarrelsome.

"And lastly from Garth Greenhand's garden," the Master of Whisperers said with an incongruous smile for the news he was relaying. "Lord Rowan will be most displeased when he returns from the Iron Islands, your Grace. Silverhill has, in his absence, begun to dam the North Spear. Lord Mathis takes his river rights seriously. I shudder to think what Lord Tywin might do if the Lord of Goldengrove moves into the Westerlands to upset House Serrets' efforts." Varys' pudgy body quivered in exaggeration within its covering of rich silks and velvets to emphasize his verbal "shudder."

"I have already written letters prepared that we might send to Silverhill, Goldengrove, Casterly Rock, and Highgarden, your Grace," the Hand added. "They suggest that as the disruption to the river will likely last only a year or two, perhaps a payment from House Serrett might recompense Lord Rowan any losses. I shall have them delivered to Maegor's for your perusal in the morning."

"Thank you, Lord Jon. Such an offer might suffice. Now what of Dorne, Lord Varys?" Stannis asked; continuing his request to hear the disposition of each of the Seven Kingdoms. The war, or rather the end of the war with the iron born, had been addressed first.

"Silent as a viper, your Grace," the eunuch said; and then with a slight giggle added. "However Houses Houses Caron, Dondarrion, Selmy, and Swann in the Stormland Marches have summoned their levies."

The King ground his teeth for the first time. "By my command," he admitted dyspeptically. "Dornish loyalty to the Iron Throne is dubious at best." With Redwyne, Rowan, Hightower, and Oakheart sailors and men-at-arms and knights and lords still in the Iron Isles, the fractious Reach had not been an immediate concern of his when word of Robert's death first reached Storm's End.

"A wise precaution, your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle agreed. "Dorne has ever been a thorn in the Realm's side."

"Mayhap, your Grace, if another month, or two, brings no further word of Prince Doran acting suspiciously, you might ask the Marcher Lords to stand down?" Lord Arryn suggested tentatively. Lord Wylde and Lord Piper nodded their heads in agreement with the Hand.

"Very well," he agreed begrudingly.

"Perhaps the Prince can be induced to visit King's Landing and personally swear fealty to your Grace?" Pycelle recommended happily.

"More like send his brother," Lord Wylde harrumphed.

"What of the Westerlands?" Stannis commanded, dismissing the proposition by ignoring it.

"Repairs continue in Lannisport. Even with Lord Tywin's gold, the harbor will not be fully restored for another six months at least. And other than House Serrett's watery gambit …" Varys' twitched his shoulders to signify little of anything.

"And the Riverlands?"

"Ha, let me tell you that one your Grace," Clement Piper announced. "The Brackens and the Blackwoods are bickering. The Targaryen loyalist houses are still backbiting at Holster Tully. And Walder Frey's wife is pregnant."

"Is this true?"

"When isn't it true, your Grace," the Hand conceded. "A few houses in the Vale still bad mouth me and speak of my love of rebels. They all said much worse of Aerys when he was alive. T'is nothing more than grumbling twixt sea mist and a small fire's smoke."

"How fares Winterfell? Lord Stark loved me not, but he was a dutiful lord; respected by his banner lords. He has left a boy little older than my Steffon to rule. Do I have need of a strong Warden of the North?"

"Lady Stark has given birth," Varys announced.

"I did not know she was pregnant," Stannis stated. "A boy child?"

"Alas, no, your Grace," the Grand Maester sighed unctuously. "A second girl. Pray young Lord Robb grows to manhood and plants his seed wide; the Stark tree is practically barren."

"My little birds tell me that House Manderly has dispatched knights from White Harbor for Winterfell," the Master of Whisperers continued.

That news appeared to shock the Hand. "Not a rebellion?" he exclaimed.

"Gossip is of Lady Catelyn forming a regency council. Lord Wyman's house is renowned for their loyalty to the Starks; which is why your brother, the King, chose him as his Master of Ships, your Grace. I would think of those knights as extra insurance against any Northern lord seeking to take advantage of a Southron Lady and a child ruling over Winterfell."

That assessment made sense to Stannis. Such situations were always tricky; tenfold more where a Lord Paramount was concerned. And more, Lady Catelyn could cry for help from Riverrun if she thought she could not trust her dead husband's banner lords. He would write a letter to the North if the situation worsened. Robb Stark would not be denied his inheritance under Stannis' kingship. "Are you done, then, Lord Varys?"

"Oh, the usual petty pecuniary and property concerns as ever in the Crownlands and King's Landing, your Grace. Triffles, really. Nothing of matter that your Master of Laws cannot handle."

Lord Piper smiled at the compliment.

For a realm with a new dynasty, a rebellion rapidly coming to a conclusion, and a recently murdered King; the situation throughout the Seven Kingdoms was not so very dire as Stannis had first feared. He could judiciously begin molding the Iron Throne to his will. "Then you are done, Varys. Your service as Master of Whisperers to the Iron Throne is at an end. In due appreciation of your years here, Lord Wylde, please escort your former colleague to the Treasury and issue him a thousand gold dragons," Stannis commanded.

"Your Grace," the eunuch's voice fluttered in surprise.

Shock, and some pleasure, shone on the faces of the other four members of the Small Council present in the room.

Stannis had no comprehension of why Robert and Lord Arryn had kept Aerys pet on the Small Council. If he could, he would get rid of the toad Pycelle too. But the position of Grand Maester was under the purview of the Citadel and its Conclave; he would certainly not abrogate their historical right to the position. "Take your leave of me …" and as the eunuch was neither a Ser nor a proper lord, Stannis simply concluded his command with the disgusting creatures name "Varys."

Smoothly, the eunuch bowed; face grown placid. "My pleasure to have served the Realm; as well as your Grace, if only for the briefest of times." He bowed and glided out of the room in a poof of lavender and lilac as his rich silks and velvets flowed behind him.

"Your Grace," Lord Ormund Wylde murmured and then the Master of Coin followed after his charge.

Stannis discerning blue eyes next took in his Master of Laws. As he had in mind asking Ser Brynden Tully to become the next Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the Riverlands would need to give up its current seat on the Small Council. The question then became from which Kingdom would it be best to seek the replacement for the heir of Pinkmaiden.

"Ahem," the Hand cleared his throat.

* * *

"Your Grace, did I hear Ser Eldon mention my Uncle Kevan?" the Dowager Queen asked softly over the restrained din of his crowning feast.

Stannis shifted in his chair atop the dais to regard the discreet lioness that was Cersei Lannister. Again, he was unsure how she had been selected to sit beside him at his inaugural dinner as King. Not that he minded. She remained as diffident as he remembered her from his previous visits to Maegor's; until now not disturbing him as he discussed Iron Throne matters with his Uncle. Most pleasantly he had already noted her keeping Steffon, seated to her other side, quietly engaged when the singers or mummers or that motley fool lost his youthful attention. What's more, this _was_ the Queen's Ballroom and Cersei, through no fault of her own, _was_ the only Queen, if merely a dowager, present.

"He did, Queen Cersei," he acknowledged. "As the whispers in this unfaithful keep have likely already reached your ears, I will make no bones about my desire at remaking the Small Council."

Stannis watched her full lips pinch and those green eyes seek out Lord and Lady Arryn sitting in the center of their own table. Word of the Hand's impending resignation and planned return to the Eyrie had reached the Lioness. ' _But as simple gossip or from servants dedicated to her and Lannister spies?_ ' he actively questioned himself.

The Lioness' placid gaze returned to him. "Kevan Lannister is competent at any task placed before him. A King could do worse than to use his talents. However, do not place him too high, your Grace; for he is ever my lord father's man."

Her answer forced his own thinner lips to curl into a slight smile. "And is Lord Tywin my man?" he could not help but test her.

She leaned into him and placed a delicate, confiding hand on his upper arm. "Your Grace is no fool not to already know that answer. He is ever his own man ... as are you."

And then she slowly pulled back into her chair, leaving behind a pleasing womanly scent in the air. Stannis felt something uncomfortable stir deep within himself. While too thin, he now observed her breasts, while modestly hidden within the conservative Baratheon colored dress she wore, were still evidently quite full. "Should I be wary of his loyalty then?"

A short, strangle chuckle escaped out that well shaped neck. "He will be sufficiently dutiful to your Grace so long as you do not work against him and House Lannister. And if you were to … I will say no more," she concluded with a flash of an apologizing smile after a long pause.

This was not that woman that Shyra had spoken of when she deigned to speak of Robert's wife. "And do you now work for or against your House, Cersei?" he asked; immediately surprised at having used only her first name.

"While my cloak changed from Lannister Crimson and Gold to Baratheon Black and Gold at my wedding, I admit I am not yet a doe. However, I was Queen for five years; and though I am to be replaced by someone younger and prettier, my duty has left a mark upon me that is not so readily erased."

' _No, not that woman at all_ ,' Stannis confirmed his assessment and felt his own vile lusts engorging themselves. A part of him had always acknowledged that Cersei Lannister was beautiful; simply a fact, like Summer ending or a storm upon the sea. At the moment, he could not imagine anyone "younger and prettier" than her.

"Nobly said. All I ever ask of any lord … or lady … is that they do their duty."

She smiled sweetly at him. "Are you a Tully fish or a Baratheon stag, your Grace? What are your thoughts on 'Family' and 'Honor,' do tell," she said with a light, mirth-filled laugh, once again leaning in close to him.

Stannis licked dry lips as her smell again surrounded him. His couplings with his wife had always been most satisfactory. It was a little over a year since Shyra's death and he had not slaked his carnal needs once in that time. Had had little desire too. And now the bewitching Cersei raised issues of note with him.

"I see little difference between duty and honor. One is not possible without the other," he avowed stiffly.

"And your Grace is already blessed with a lovely family; if dear Steffon is any measure to compare Ormund and Cassana by."

He agreed; yet still he had wondered since the raven's arrival at Storm's End whether two sons were sufficient. Robert had died without a true born heir. And after Stannis there was only Renly, barely old enough to squire. He looked at the Lioness beside him and felt the strange urge to breed coursing through him like a rampant stag bounding in the woods.

She reached out and touched him again, this time her warm palm partially covering the back of his rough shield hand. "My sympathies at the loss of poor Shyra. I never had the chance before, your Grace."

He did not want to think about Shyra. He had dutifully grieved her death. Other emotions swelled within him, threatening to drown out reason and good sense. ' _Cersei is barren, as wife she would have no children to threaten Steffon and Ormund's legacies with. But she is barren, what if the horrible need for further heirs arises. As wife and hostage, the Westerlands' loyalty remains assured. Kevan Lannister will make nearly as good a hostage. She is desirable. She is not a whore. Robert loved me not and perhaps she could. Cersei was your brother's wife. She is properly biddable for a wife and Queen. Shyra found Cersei haughty, mean-spirited, selfish, …_ '

'Your Grace?" the Dowager Queen asked with concern at his long silence; squeezing his hand.

Perhaps "duty" and "honor" were slightly different after all, Stannis found he could not dishonor the memory of his most dutiful dead wife. "And I never wished for Robert's death," he stodgily replied.

She nodded in understanding at him, empathy oozing from her eyes into his.

"Now when you return to Casterly Rock …"

He felt a tremor through her palm at his pronouncement. "I am to return?"

"Yes, it is for the best. I do not want your lord father to think I am holding you hostage for his good will," Stannis lied.

"Oh." The Lioness' emerald gaze lowered from his eyes back to diffidently looking into her lap.

"And when you return, I shall have a letter for you to deliver to your Uncle, asking him to join my Small Council as Master of Laws. Will you do this service for me, Queen Cersei," he asked virtuously.

"Of course. T'will be my pleasure, your Grace," she agreed with quiet amiability.

"My thanks to you." Stannis felt well pleased. Cersei luckily would never know how close she had come from receiving the dishonor of having him ask her to be his mistress.


	5. Chapter 5

**Cersei POV**

 **Casterly Rock, 290**

Cersei's memory told her right where she was; there was even a hint of salt in the air. Anxious with anticipation, she prodded her horse into a trot. Her nightmare was nearly at an end. Six years earlier, when the wheelhouse carrying her off to become Queen had broached the top of the incline out of the last of the flatlands and entered the wide turn that would envelop her in the Westerlands' foot hills, she had not looked back, not once.

Neither Uncle Stafford nor the red cloaks, who had taken over escorting her from damned Stannis' dullards at Deep Den, and not as they properly should have at the border with the Reach, tried to restrain her. Not like late yester afternoon, when he had forbidden her, _her_ , from continuing into the night to seek the end the interminable journey all the sooner. " _T'would not be proper, my Queen … and dangerous_ ," her mother's brother had gloomed; and refused to move an inch off his position for her, _her_.

At least at the Lydden's castle she had been able to leave the royal wheelhouse and its nauseating plethora of engraved Baratheon stags behind to ride in the clean, open air; though the conversation had little improved, middle age had not improved her Uncle Stafford's wit a whit. Now the Gold Road began the curve she remembered as the slopes of the hills on either side of the pass started descending. Her goal so tantalizingly close she could almost taste it.

Cerseidug her spurs in again, causing her mottled mount to spurt forward into a canter that soon saw her passing the front riders. All alone, she turned to peer over her shoulder to see if any were following their Queen. Not a one. They followed at their normal lumbering pace. ' _That to danger_ ,' she sniffed to herself, ignoring the disappointment that immediately festered at young Daven not making an effort to catch up.

Her cousin had been the lone bright spot the last fortnight. Young, vigorous, strong, adept with arms, and handsome, as a true Lannister should be. But not too young, at sixteen name days and newly knighted. She wished she could have conversed more with him than she had as they rode over high passes and into deep valley; alas, like Jaime, sweet Daven took the duties assigned him seriously and seldom had time to be her sole companion for part of any day.

There!

Cersei's heart rose up in her throat.

Tears fell as the pent up tension released.

The reins fell forgotten out of nerveless hands.

As the horse slowed with her no longer bothering to control it, she fought to stifle the gasps that threatened to burst out of her chest.

In the distance, soaring a thousand feet above the sea, the craggy, powerful, magnificent edifice that was Casterly Rock.

Home.

Cersei was finally, truly safe once more.

And in her mind's eye she knew that her peerless father was waiting expectantly on his private balcony, gazing East; awaiting the return of his beloved daughter.

Together they would work to set her future aright and plot the ruin of the Baratheons; every last root and branch of those wretched stags. No one abused _her_. No one rejected _her_. No one. "A Lannister always pays her debts," she promised viciously into a Westerlands' gust that carried the words off to the deepest of the SevenHells.

By the time the escort, in taking its sweet, insolent time, caught up to her, Cersei Lannister had regained control of her regal self and was merrily humming "The Rains of Castamere" to herself.

* * *

"What do you mean my father will not see me now!" she raged at the Steward; another seemingly unaltered feature of Casterly Rock.

"I apologize, your Grace," ancient, doddering Lord Gerold Lannett answered evenly. "His instructions were very explicit. He will see you at tonight's betrothal feast. And then afterward, your lord father will meet with you in a family conclave."

"I … will … see … him … now."

The infuriating, too placid, non-smile did not budge on that splotched, weathered face; only hinting at Lord Tywin backed steel in his rheumy eyes. This look she well remembered from him after the end of the happy times, the death of her beloved mother by that vile runt she must call a brother.

"Now!" she commanded again, restraining her voice only to keep it from shrieking.

"I regret not, your Grace."

"I am the Queen," she fumed.

"And Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock is my liege lord and the head of your House, your Grace," he said with the same resolve he had given her when she had been a particularly naughty child.

But Cersei was no longer a child. She was a Queen. She was a Lioness of Casterly Rock herself. And one denied her wishes for far too long. Five long, painful, embarrassing, very, very long years she had learned to repress her desires, her furor; nearly forgotten who and what she was.

No more. Casterly Rock was home. And her homecoming was already an epic disaster. No welcoming ceremony, no parade of knights, no flurry of horns, no Uncles and Aunts, nor her cherished Father at the Lion's Mouth to shower the beloved returning daughter with the affection and respect she deserved.

Cersei had not been granted a grand entrance into the Golden Gallery choked full of the Westerlands' most powerful and beautiful banner lords and ladies adorned in their finest regalia; who in her mind would have rained thunderous cheers down upon her as she took her seat on the Lion's Paw beside their venerated Lord Paramount.

No, only a forced, hurried climb up the Great Shaft to her old apartments and an interview with this … this midden heap of an ugly, useless, old man. No sane lord or lady could expect a Queen to suffer such indignities. To eat such shite. Not in her own home. Casterly Rock was hers. Hers and Jaime's. And with Jaime gone …

She swallowed her rage as best she could. A talent unfortunately well developed by Baratheon laden necessity. "My pardon, Lord Gerold. T'was a long journey and I am tired. I will of course obey my lord father's sensible edict," she apologized; tasting again the bile of lies that was the curtesy unjustly expected of her, _her_. "Now pray tell me, of what betrothal are you speaking? My lord Uncle Stafford made no mention on our journey of any such festivities."

Her distant, bastard Lannett cousin bowed slightly to acknowledge the change in her tone. "Your cousin Ser Lyonel will one day wed Lady Melessa Crakehall, eldest daughter of Ser Burton. I believe Lord Tywin is with Lord Roland in his private salon to witness the signing of the contract between Ser Burton and Ser Emmon, your Grace," he informed her with his calm politeness.

That explained the large amount of Boar paraphernalia Cersei had seen when had been forcibly led on her horse into the stable, instead of allowed to dismount in front of the inner gate as protocol demanded. She smiled sweetly. "Dear Jaime always had fine words for his time at Crakehall squiring for old Lord Sumner. Did Ser Tybolt and Ser Lyle happen to accompany their lord father and knightly uncle as well?"

"They did, your Grace. And the youngest brother, Master Merlon, as well."

A mere squire, what did he matter? What did any of the Crakehalls matter to her? She was a Queen ... with a role to play. "Most pleasing to hear, I will enjoy sharing my memories of Jaime with them." That painful mention brought her up short a moment. "I … I don't believe I've seen the Crakehalls since my wedding," she now smiled through that never forgotten horror; her daily redrawn mental image of Robert's iron born gutted corpse provided a wonderful tonic. Her one regret in leaving King's Landing, aside from damned Stannis' pitiful rejection of her, was in not hopping atop his casket during the funeral in the Great Sept and having all Westeros watch her piss Lannister gold over his wretched bones.

"Will that be all, your Grace? Shall I summon a trio of lady's maids for you?"

"Not quite yet, Lord Gerold. If you could direct me to my Uncle Kevan, I have a letter for him from the King." She patted her travel cloak in emphasis.

Disbelieving, watery old eyes glanced down to judge whether or not there was a bulge as she indicated. A wintry half-smile, "Alas, as ever Ser Kevan is your lord father's closest advisor, he is also in the salon for the contract signing," the ancient devil lied smoothly.

"Very well, I shall just hand it to him at this evening's feast," she agreeably returned the lie. "Now if you will allow me, Lord Gerold. I will retire to recuperate from the journey. You have my leave."

"As your Grace, commands," he said with a bow. "I shall arrange for a lady-in-waiting and several lady's maids to see to your needs." And Lord bastard Gerold Lannett removed himself from her rooms.

As soon as the door shut, Cersei hurried out of her visitor's salon, through her bedroom, down the hall past her childhood playroom and the robing room to her old Governess' room. She had not been gone so long as not to well remember that there was more than one way into and out of her quarters, or her father's private salon as well; with a squeal of long unused iron she twisted the lock open and flung the door wide.

"Was there something you forgot, your Grace," the smug, whithered cock asked oh so politely.

"There was, Lord Gerold. So glad I could gain your attention before you wandered off," she spat out.

"Yes?"

"Please be sure to see that my bags are brought to my apartment before dinner. There is a particularly fetching choker I wish to wear this evening." ' _I've something much fucking rougher in mind to choke you with later, you ill-bred bastard_ ,' she promised herself.

"Very good, your Grace." He bowed again and tottered off down the servants access way; leaving two large red coats to salute her and take station either side of the door, spears crossing to bar her egress.

Cersei shut the door firmly and then started pounding the granite walls of Casterly Rock in frustration.

* * *

The so-called feast and its corresponding conversation proved a desultory, drab affair with Cersei being denied the high table as was her royal right.

 _Upon her entrance in a dazzling light green, gossamer dress that accentuated her eyes and progress to opposite her father's seat, Tywin Lannister had acknowledged her with minimal fervor, "Cersei, Casterly Rock welcomes your return."_

" _I am a Lioness of House Lannister. This is ever my home, father," she had replied proudly, yet refusing to grant him his title as he had not deigned to grant her hers._

" _I remember seeing another's cloak draped across your shoulders," he announced in a chill tone that froze Cersei's blood. "Nevertheless, my house is pleased to see its daughter. Your brother and uncles and aunts will wish to greet you, I am sure," he declared and then immediately turned away from her to take up speaking with Burton Crakehall who was already sharing the high table with him._

 _Cersei's cheek instantly flushed as much at the abrupt, cruel dismissal as it once had from one of Robert's well placed backhands. Stunned, she soon found a mere servant leading her off to a seat on the wings where she fumbled through cool, insincere words from those lessers relegated there. They consisted of the Imp, Uncle Kevan, his flat chested Swyft wife, o'er cheery Uncle Gerion, dreadful Uncle Stafford again, his dimmer witted Lefford wife Miranda, Uncle Tygett's widow Darlessa, cousin Damion, his portly Crakehall wife Shiera, and some spotty faced little teenage bitch she had never laid eyes on before._

Stannis' letter, like all about the damned man, had proven unnecessary; a raven weeks earlier carrying the offer of Master of Laws to Uncle Kevan, of which he had accepted. Aunt Dorna used that excuse to periodically pester her with detailed questions about the Red Keep in her usual flighty, over excited manner.

From the conversation swirling about her uncle's appointment she could not help but overhear that the so called Blackfish had at last accepted the post of Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. So with Paxter Redwyne and Lucos Chyttering already having been brought in as the new Master of Ships and Master of Whisperers the only place left to fill on the Small Council would be Hand when Lord Arryn retired at the end of Early Summer.

Far, far too much breath was then wasted on who damned Stannis would choose. She knew the stiff cock, but apparently after a year's widowership not stiff enough for her, well enough to proclaim bitterly, "The Hand shall be an empty honor, worth little more than that of Castellan or Steward of the Red Keep. King Stannis shall be his own Hand."

Thankfully none dared utter in her presence who he might take as _his_ queen. Though she knew, _knew_ , that the question hovered front most in their petty minds. She kept her goblet full of wine, prepared at the first mention to launch its contents full in the fool's face.

" _Queen you shall be... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear"_

"Piss on your prophecy, old hag," she murmured as with subtle, askance looks she continued to watch her lord father hosting the tongue-tied betrothed Lyonel and Melesa and their respective senior Frey and Crakehall families at the high table. Jaime had been taken from her; yet she still stood, perhaps slightly bent, but proud and beautiful.

"What was that, Cersei? I swear your lips moved but no sound came out."

She turned a scathing gaze on her brother and refused to address him.

With a daft smile on his misshaped face and oft colored eyes dancing a ridiculous jig, the Imp raised a cup to her and drank deep. For once she matched him, letting the wine stoke the fires in her belly. ' _Casterly Rock will never be yours_ ,' she promised.

For the rest of the meal, she used her goblet as a shield; to refrain from speaking when conversation threatened to draw her in. To hide behind as she watched father or scanned the rest of the meagerly attended feast.

As she nervously noted, Tywin had not once bothered to direct his gaze upon her. Past her, over her, next to her, yes. Never on her. On the other hand, she had more than once caught Lord Roland and his porcine wife peering in her direction, no doubt as part of some petty gossip against her good name.

On the other wing, more encouragingly, she had spied where Daven sat, smothered between Tybolt and Lyle Crakehall. That trio frequently looked at her with pleasure on their faces. Perhaps she had made more of an impression on Daven on their shared journey than she realized. With her father's unexpected icy demeanor, Cersei feared she needed a sound plan and soon.

What little she actively listened to at the side table was any mention of her cousin. Invariably it being Uncle Stafford opening his slack jaw to expound upon his son. Even accounting for his overly filial pride, Cersei could discern much to be encouraged from his extravagant words. While certainly no Jaime, a once in a millennium perfection of Lannister strength and beauty, the case for Daven as the key suggested well of itself, exceedingly well.

The goblet full of Arbor Gold hid her apprehension when of his own volition Kevan randomly inquired of Stafford his son's prospects. Cersei herself could not have more naturally inquired about her own newly found yearning. ' _Fool,_ ' she laughed to herself as her mother's brother hemmed and hawed vaguely about daughters of only the finest houses without giving out any names. There was no one. Nothing. No attachments to hamper the kernel taking root in her brain.

If Tywin's utterly unfair, coldness towards her continued, she calculated that Daven offered her her best path to the one thing left in her life she desired; that and vengeance against House Baratheon of course. Her heart knew that her lord father, even to save his own life, would never make the Imp, the murderer of his beloved Joanna, his heir.

While that seemingly left only her, regardless the odor he found in her at the moment; five years of living under the groaning weight and random expectations of the Cockless Stag had made her infinitely more wary and wily. She had been prophesied to be Queen; and that she had become, yet the Froggy Bitch had never bothered to make her aware of the dire circumstances it would encompass.

This would work. The logic was flawless. Had not her mother been her father's first cousin, as Daven was to her? And was the unpledged knight not the idolized Joanna's own nephew. What could be more perfect? She would remain quiet and respectful as she learned how best to maneuver father, uncle, and cousin to unknowingly do her bidding.

She would act more cleverly than she had in trying to ensnare damned Stannis. She would …

"… Cersei. Are you too in your cups to hear me, lovely sister."

"Tyrion, make yourself useful. I discovered the drain in my bathe clogged. Be a dear and climb into the sewers to fix it," she commanded with sweet disdain. Even in King's Landing she had received news of the position her father had entrusted to the Imp to perform in aid of the war against the iron born.

"Perhaps later, dear Cersei, but only after the Strongboar has had his say. It must be important. The way he jiggles, why normally I'd suspect a man moving like that was desperate for the jakes; lest he explode," the disgusting creature laughed at his own joke.

The unknown, titless Westerling brat wearing a seashell festooned blouse sitting beside the Imp snickered in amusement as well.

Her deathly glare at the putrid bitch only caused the little monster to chuckle all the harder.

"No, no, Cersei, that one is a Kraken, despite little Asha's size," proclaimed a too well humored Uncle Gerion. "The Strongboar is the rather largish fellow over there," he chuckled as he pointed.

Reluctantly she shifted her gaze. ' _Gods, its possible he's even uglier than Robert_ ,' she judged at first glance at the largest Crakehall, standing tall and sword arm extended straight at her with a cup miniscule in his grasp. Near as big a brute, undoubtedly; maybe an inch less in height, but thicker about a torso plunked atop not as meaty thighs. Nothing about the boar promised elegance. ' _Bet his cock works_ ,' she thought snidely.

Seeing her at last take notice of him, Ser Lyle smiled broadly, causing the huge mound of black fur on his face to split open and the overly thick ebon eyebrows to raise up happily in surprise.

" _As if anyone could avoid missing a giant oaf like you._ "

"A toast, to the lovely Queen Cersei," he roared in a stentorian voice that drowned out the musicians and all talk in the room. "To the return of lost beauty to the Westerlands!"

"To lost beauty!" all the room echoed, except modestly herself.

And her eye took in whom in the room revealed pleasure at the toast; including the slight smile that flittered across her father's stern, bewhiskered face.

She returned her beloved father her warmest look, glad that whatever fickle spur that been bothering the Lion about her return had thankfully been forgotten, or better yet, removed.

* * *

"Tyrion shall never have Casterly Rock," Tywin pronounced to the four others gathered in his private library after the end of the pathetic feast.

There had been a current in the air as they all settled in, fresh drinks at hand. And now Cersei knew why. She wanted to shout for joy at the confirmation of her status; yet playing the dutiful role expected of her, she contained all evidence of her elation.

"I speak these words to you alone, Cersei, as the rest already know my decision on this matter."

Belatedly, she realized that the Imp had not revealed surprise at the announcement, nor Uncles Kevan and Gerion. That was predictable she realized. Had she not only just arrived? " _Though what else might …_ "

"However, as he is my acknowledged son, …"

"Gracious of you, father."

"… I will dower Tyrion with a prospect sufficiently worthy of a Lannister," Tywin continued unperturbed by the brief interruption.

As much as she wished to laugh outright at the idea of a man needing to be dowered; not that her brother was much of a man, she wisely refrained and simply nodded with understanding suffusing her face. Tywin's gold flecked commanding green eyes stared at her. "What dowry might that be, father?" she queried courteously as the unspoken demand, so typical of him, required of her.

"The Greyjoy chit who sat at table with you this night is the last living offspring of Balon Greyjoy. In fact, the only remaining Greyjoy; unless Balon's brother Euron shows up someday on a shore as a bloated, crab eaten corpse or drunk and alive in an Essosi port. So far, the Iron Throne has imprudently made no demands for Asha since Lord Manderly left her in my charge. Now that you, Cersei, are in the Westerlands, I do not mean to give King Stannis the chance to rectify this mistake."

"I give you joy of your bride, Tyrion, Lord Protector of Pyke and the Iron Islands," she proclaimed sardonically.

"Oh, your brother won't hold that title quite yet. Right, Tywin?" Uncle Gerion injected waggishly.

"Normally I would assign Kevan such a responsibility. But with the king's interest in him and the iron born so badly broken by the North's blood thirsty revenge, I trust that even Gerion cannot muck up the rulership until Tyrion grows into the position," her father bluntly cut down in one statement the two least loved family members in the room.

"It will cost us a pretty penny to start; what with all that must get rebuilt and the cost to entice and move loyal settlers to repopulate" Uncle Kevan acknowledge with a satisfied smile. "But worth the price, I think, to put a Lannister a top the Seastone Chair. The iron mines and trade from a rebuilt, strictly commercial, fleet should repay Casterly Rock's loans and the interest within a generation."

Tyrion and Gerion hooted in mirth for some reason at Uncle Kevan's assessment, though she found nothing of humor in it. The gold of Casterly Rock would pour forth to aid the unworthy Imp. Cersei would rather see the gardesrobes sheathed in the precious metal than go to him.

"Which brings the next point for all here." Her father, from the table beside him, opened the top and pulled out a parchment covered in script. "As it is unlikely that I shall ever remarry, let alone get more true born children, I must fully face the loss of Jaime."

The Lion's firm voice quivered ever so slightly at mention of her beloved twin's name. Cersei's heart ached a new at its mention by one she knew loved him near as much as she had … did … would ever and ever.

"This document acknowledges Kevan and his line as my heirs."

Cersei swallowed hard as her stomach dropped to the dungeons in the Rock. Nononono. Nononono. Nononono. Nononono Nononono.

"Oooooops, there you go, Cersei," Gerion said gently, catching her as she swooned. "Your pale as a ghost."

She felt a goblet pressed to her lips. Wine drizzling down her throat.

"No," she forcefully choked out as she sat up, struggling from Uncle Gerion's arms. "Casterly Rock is …"

"Mine to do with as I deem best."

"Father, I beg you," she pleaded, falling to her knees. "Allow me to marry a Lannister cousin. A suitable Lannister cousin. You are still young, with many years left. Grant that a Lannister son of mine become your heir. You need not …"

"Get up, Cersei, and remember yourself," her father spoke with such contempt for her that she knew not what.

"Father," she wheezed, forgetting herself and who she was.

"Do you not believe that I had long planned, if Jaime could not be winnowed away from his damnable folly with the Kingsguard, for your second son to inherit all," he thundered angrily. "Where are your sons? Where even are your daughters? Where I ask you?"

"Robert … Robert was impotent. A wound to the thigh, from Rhaegar at the Ruby Ford. He could not …" she wept.

A hand smote down to crack the table, toppling it over. "That whore master? He reveled in his fleshly needs. He was so jealous of your treasure that he kept you locked away in the Maidenvault when he went hunting for even a night. His lusts are the stuff of legends."

"No, no, no. T'was his shame; he held it tight, like a mad beast," Cersei raved. "At our bedding he beat me to silence."

"I saw no mark on you the next morning," he sneered. "The smear of blood on the bed linen I did see. And never a word in five years of this from your own brother. Let alone from Pycelle, who saw to both …"

"A ruse. He … he … Robert swore that if ever word of any sort other than my barrenness became public, he would rain like Castamere onto our house, father. I swear it. I promise I am fertile. I am. And dutiful. Let me prove it," she abased herself in misery and shame and tears sprawled on the rug before him and the others.

Silence, as those gold flecked green eyes ground into her. Hopefully seeing a reflection of his beloved Joanna in her. Finding mercy.

Finally, he scowled and turned away from her. Walking to the window, giving her his back.

"Ahem," Uncle Kevan cleared his throat.

Uncle Gerion helped her off the humiliating floor. Tyrion tried to grab an arm, but she shrugged him off. Why had he not fought for Casterly Rock?

"You are lucky, Cersei, that there is a noble house willing to take a risk on a barren dowager queen," Tywin's lordly voice filled the room with resignation.

The tiniest seed of hope sprouted out of its hard shell inside her broken psyche. A husband and a son. Even with her disheveled mind, she understood that this pronouncement meant there was still time. Uncle Kevan and his three whelps could be dislodged later, when she had better proven herself to him.

"Regardless of whether you do prove fertile or not, I forbid you from ever mentioning anything of Robert Baratheon's … possible … condition to anyone outside of this room. Even your Lord Husband. This accusation is dangerous; and would bode ill for hour House were it ever to reach Baratheon ears. Do you understand?" he asked in a more intimidating tone than she'd ever before experienced from him; yet a relief compared to Robert's.

"Yes," she gulped.

"Tell her, Kevan."

"The contract has already been signed. Lord Tywin has graciously agreed to dower you with the lands and funds necessary for your lord husband to rebuild Tarbeck Hall. If you have no children, the new castle and lands will pass to the next son in their house," he explained.

"Generous, so generous, thank you, Father, thank you," she gushed. "Who … who am I to marry?" curiosity now desperately burning away all other considerations.

"Lyle Crakehall," her father announced with no emotion.

The image of the brute toasting her hardly more than an hour past reared frighteningly in her mind. The so called Strongboar was Robert reborn; worse.

"No. Anyone but him, please father."

He pivoted sharply about, eyes ablaze, "You will do as I say, Cersei."

She wilted before him, but refused to look away. "No. I … I'd rather become a silent sister. Please father," she begged, envisioning the hairy, filthy beast rutting between her legs. Leering at her. Drewling and sweating upon her, tainting her.

"You will marry him. The Crakehalls are loyal banners; not to be insulted. And you will do so on the morrow!" he thundered.

She gasped. ' _No time, no time, no time_ ,' she repeated over and over in her head.

"If you refuse me. If you shame our house in front of all the Westerlands, so help the _Seven_ , I will give you to Gregor Clegane and be damned to you."

* * *

Cersei remember very little of the next day and its subsequent torture.

Aunt Genna supervised her dressing; speaking meaningless words about her own marriage, as if suffering at the hands of a mere Frey could ever match the horror of wedding another Robert. The tittering that accompanied the japes that she had nothing to be taught about what happened at the bedding made her want to vomit.

She barely reacted to the slap to the face that was forcing her to marry at the same time as the Imp and that pimple of a Kraken. What did it matter? Any of it. She contemplated bursting free and throwing herself down the Great Shaft as her father gave her the "honor" of escorting her into the Sept wearing a Baratheon cloak instead of a Lannister one. Someone else's dull monotone repeated for her the Septon's prompted words; for surely her voice sounded nothing like that.

The bridal feast at least gave her the chance to drink deeply and often. To oblivion, as the Strongboar's ogrish mitts pawed her all the while listening to his deep rumbling's of "Sweetling," "My lovely Queen," and "My beautiful Lioness" ad nauseam. His ardor sickened her, made some disengage part of her brain ponder whether retching the mostly liquid contents of her stomach on him would cool her fervor or only disgustingly inflame it all the more.

She was so drunk by the time of the bedding that Casterly Rock was already spinning when she was picked up, carried, man-handled, passed around, mauled, stripped, and at last deposited half-conscious naked in a bed. As her mind whirled and failed to prepare her for what was about to come, she tried to capture a fragment of Jaime to hold on to; but her twin proved elusive, slipping in and out of focus.

For the first time he directed that mocking gaze of his upon her. " _You wished to become a Queen, Cersei, and for me to join the Kingsguard so that we might always be together. It's worked well, don't you think?_ "

"Gods," she gasped.

The Strongboar, just as naked as she was, stood before her grinning stupidly; taking her outburst for some sort of a sick compliment.

The cock-stand, no, the fleshy red tusk, jutting angrily out at her was … was … enormous. Better suited for a donkey or a horse.

" _Bwahahahahahaha!_ " Jaime laughed at her knowingly.

"My Queen," he rasped huskily, climbing on to the bed.

She tried to roll away from him but somehow only succeeded in spreading her legs for him.

"So lovely, so lovely," he chanted lustily, jerking his hips forward.

"AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" she screamed.

* * *

FINIS

The Story of the Lioness will continue later in the next installment of the series, titled _The Lioness Shackled_


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